A crappy EDM song blasts in the air, making my temples throb. Never been a fan of electronic dance music. Nico and I attended a couple of raves in Miami, but it wasn’t my thing. When we were there, he tried to convince me to do MDMA, and I said hell no, which surprised most of his friends.

It’s funny, but people expect me to be more reckless than I actually am. I mean, I’ll dance at the drop of a hat, no matter where I am. I’ll talk to strangers in the CVS checkout line. And sure, if someone asked me to go skydiving or bungee jumping I’d consider it. But I’ve never cared for the drug scene or the kind of dangerous activities our Miami friends were into. Whenever I visited, Nico spent a lot of time racing cars. Illegally, of course, which meant I was looking over my shoulder the entire time waiting for the cops to show up.

So no, recklessness isn’t a trait I usually possess. But I’m going to be reckless tonight. I’m going to tease my friend and hopefully convince him to break his vow. I guess that probably makes me a jerk, but a part of me wonders if Hunter is overcompensating for something. Last year he acted in a self-destructive manner, hooking up with random girls, drinking too much. But I don’t believe that’s inherently his nature. I think he was simply reeling from Summer’s rejection and the perceived betrayal from his friend.

If you ask me, sex isn’t the reason his hockey season imploded last year, nor do I think the lack of it is responsible for the team’s success this year.

I’m starting to believe it’s a matter of trust. As in, he doesn’t trust himself to make good decisions in the moment. But I don’t think avoiding any situations that require difficult decision-making is the solution.

My gaze drifts in Hunter’s direction. He’s across the living room, deep in conversation with Matt Anderson. Meanwhile, I’m in the corner like a loser, sucking on one of the many lollipops stashed at all times in my purse. Hunter left me to my own devices once we got here, but this isn’t my crowd and I don’t miss all the dirty looks I’m receiving from the hockey groupies, as if I’m trespassing on their property.

I don’t particularly understand the sports groupie mentality. The fact that they make it seem like I’m trying to steal something from them tells me that they don’t care about the men they’re coveting, only the status those men bring to the table. I look at Hunter and see Hunter. They look at him and see HOCKEY PLAYER.

“What’s the matter? Not having fun?” Conor wanders over and joins me in the doorway.

It’s impossible to look at Conor without noticing how incredibly attractive he is. He sort of resembles Hunter’s friend Dean, except in a surfer-dude way whereas Dean should be posing in cologne ads or underwear spreads.

“Eh, I just don’t know anyone.” I shrug, absently twirling the stick of my lollipop between my thumb and index finger.

“You know me.” He flashes a crooked grin.

“True.”

He nods toward Hunter. “And Davenport.”

“Also true. But he’s busy at the moment.”

“Well, I’m not.” Conor slants his head. “Come dance with me. We can entertain each other.”

Normally I wouldn’t turn down a dance offer, but my bladder is full from the two sodas I drank at the game and the vodka cranberry one of Conor’s roommates made for me.

“I would, but I have to pee so bad,” I admit. “If we dance I’d probably pee all over you.” Then again, maybe that’s his kink. As I learned tonight, that’s actually a thing people do.

He laughs. “All right, how ’bout you take care of that little problem first, and then we’ll reevaluate.”

I check behind us, noting the line for the downstairs bathroom. “How ’bout you keep me company while I wait in line?”

“I’ll do you one better.” He winks and holds out his hand.

I take it.

And when I notice Hunter frowning in our direction just before we exit the room, I can’t fight a smug smile. I hadn’t intended on it happening right this second, but looks like Operation Jealousy has officially commenced.

Upstairs, Conor opens a door and gestures for me to enter. “I’ve got the master bedroom with the ensuite. My toilet is yours, milady.”

I snicker. “Thanks, milord.”

In the bathroom, I toss out my lollipop, then lift up my dress and do my thing. I feel slightly stupid wearing a short dress in the middle of winter, but we stopped off at Brenna and Hunter’s house after the game, where Brenna convinced me to ditch my leggings and sweater for one of her dresses—a long-sleeved, ribbed sweater dress that barely reaches my knees. Black, of course.

As I wash my hands, I hear the murmur of voices beyond the bathroom door. A female one, and more than one male. I emerge to find Matt sprawled on the bed next to a girl with dark braids. “Hi!” she says when she spots me. “I’m Andrea.”

“Demi.”

“Come sit down,” Conor calls from the small couch. The master is big enough to contain a double bed, a dresser, sofa, and huge flat screen TV. Conor’s on one end of the couch, fiddling with a video game controller. Hunter is on the other end, uncapping a bottle of amber-colored liquid.

“Whiskey?” I say, wrinkling my nose. “We’re drinking whiskey now? What happened to your precious beer?” When we got here, he’d made a big deal about how Matt had picked up a case of Dampf Punk for them. Obviously, I inquired as to why anyone would pick such a stupid name for a beer, at which point he’d given me the finger.

“We’re all out. The only thing that’s left is the watery keg.” He makes a face. “Come do a shot with me, Semi.”

I hesitate. If I start doing shots, I might lose my head. On the other hand, I could use the liquid courage. Truth be told, I have no clue how to go about seducing somebody.

“Is it still cool if I crash on your couch tonight?” I ask him.

Hunter nods. He removes his baseball cap to run his fingers through his dark hair, then shoves the cap back on.

I join him on the couch. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

While Conor is busy setting up a skateboarding game, Hunter pours a shot and swallows it back.

I watch the strong column of his throat as he gulps the whiskey. I want to kiss him right there—right at the base of his throat. I wonder if I’d feel his pulse fluttering beneath my lips.

He passes me the shot glass. I eye it suspiciously. “What? I don’t get my own?”

“There’s only one up here. If you want your own, go downstairs and get one.” Hunter lifts an eyebrow. “What, you afraid of catching my cooties?”

“Your tongue’s been in my mouth. If you have cooties, I’m already infected.”

That makes Conor chuckle. “Pour me a shot, too.”

“Me first,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips.

I drink, and the alcohol instantly makes my eyes water. Eeek. I’m not used to whiskey, I guess. I can sling back tequila like a pro, but something about this whiskey is getting me buzzed harder and faster than usual.

Hunter pours another one, and I pass the shot to Conor. He swallows it, then starts a game. I watch as his skateboarder performs a series of tricks on a concrete half-pipe.

“Hey, that’s in Jacksonville!” I exclaim as I study the familiar setting on the screen.